


Mother

by crowntheking



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowntheking/pseuds/crowntheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had never known his mother, but he had his father, and that was alright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother

He was raised mostly in a small wooden cabin in the woods. There was a nice, clean stream nearby and plenty of wildlife to eat. It was a good life, and simple. He liked it a lot.

He lived alone with his father. He had no other family. That was okay, he only needed his father. When he was old enough to be alone and not be too afraid, his father would go away for a few hours to the nearest town. He had been taught to use a dagger if someone tried to rob them. No one ever did. Father always came back.

When he was old enough, Father started bringing him into town with him. Women would pinch his cheeks and say how handsome he was. They would say he must have favored his mother, for certainly he didn’t look like his father, but he thought he must’ve. He had his father’s coloring after all. He was tall and broad like his father, and hoped to be as strong as him someday too.

Father had been teaching him how to use a sword ever since he could hold one. It was hard work, but rewarding. When his back and arms ached after he trained, he found pleasure in it. His pain was a sign of his hard work. His father looked proud of him sometimes.

“What was mother like?” He asked his father one night. He knew Father did not like to talk about her. It hurt him. Father never said so, but he noticed.

“She was perfect.” Father replied.

“The Septon in the village says only the Gods are perfect.”

“The Gods aren’t real, and your mother was perfect.” His father snapped.

“Maybe…” He bit his fingernail. “Maybe the Gods are real, and the world is getting so big that they needed some help, so they called mother up to help them, since she was perfect like them.”

“If the Gods are real, I curse them for taking her away.” His father strode over and pushed him into his bed, pulling his furs over him. “Now sleep, Eddard. Tomorrow, we have work to do.”

* * *

 

Eddard was a good boy. He listened to his father, because he knew that his father knew best. So when his father told him to gather their things, what little of them they had, he did.

Father had purchased a wagon from the nearby town. His horse, strong and proud, was attached to it. After they were through loading it, his father climbed in and took one last look at the house.

“You might as well take your look too, boy.” He shoved Eddard’s shoulder. “This is the house you were made in, and born in. I raised you here too, once you were weaned. By my buggering self, might I add.”

Eddard looked over his shoulder at the cottage, the only home he’d ever known. “What am I looking for?”

“Memories? I don’t know.” His father shrugged. “May as well look, like I said. This will probably be the last time you see it, I know it will be the last for me.”

“Where are we going?”

“King’s Landing. You’ve got a birthright to claim.”

“Birthright?” This was the first he’d ever heard of anything like that.

“That’s right, little lord.”

“What birthright?”

“The one your mother gave to you when she died.” Father tugged the reins and they started forward on their journey. “Your mother was the last surviving member of her family. She was a proper little highborn lady. We were going to wait until the war was over, and I was going to take her back home, but we never got that chance. It’s yours now. It has been since the day she died.”

“But you and mother were married, right?”

“Yes, but I’m not so high born as she. The Cleganes had a keep near Casterly Rock. We were landed knights who sprung up from servitude. Your mother’s bloodline goes back thousands of years, to the first men. If she’s to be believed, there’s even some magic in there. Her family had a castle, and a whole city.”

“Who… who _was_ my mother?”

A pained look crossed his father’s face. “Her name was Sansa Stark.” He paused. “She named you before she died. She named you after her father. Eddard’s a family name for the Starks. You ought to be so lucky.”

“Were you…" He thought better of the question. "Nevermind.”

“Spit it out, boy.” His father growled. “You should ask your questions while I’m still up to giving answers.”

“Were you… allowed to marry my mother, if she was so highborn?”

“No, I don’t think I was, but I did anyway. I may have been old enough to be her father but I was still a boy on the inside, and she was pretty and kind and sweet-smelling.” Father laughed. “All she had to do was kiss me and I would do whatever she said, and when she offered for us to marry, I didn’t even argue.”

“You really loved her.” Eddard was touched. He wanted a love like that one day.

“I did.” Father nodded solemnly. “She’s gone, but of all the ghosts that haunt me, hers calls the loudest.”

“I’m sorry that I killed her.” He truly was. He did not mean to kill her, but he had only been a baby. He wouldn’t have done it, had he known. He missed his mother terribly, even though he never knew her.

Father snorted. “You didn’t kill her, boy. The fever did. If it’s anyone’s fault that your mother died, it’s mine. I waited too long to try to get her a maester. I’m surprised you didn’t end up dead too.”

“I’m glad I’m not dead.” Eddard touched his father’s arm. “You’d be alone then. I know how much you hate that.”

His father’s eyes softened at him. “You’ve got your mother’s heart.” He shook his head, turning his face away. “Now shut up, son. We’ve got a long way to go.”

* * *

 

King’s Landing was nothing at all like Eddard thought it would be. It was dirty, and full of rude and unpleasant people, and it was so very hot. He had been born in the winter, but that time had gone and it was summer again. He had spent most of his life only a little south of the Neck.

According to father, they lived at the Quiet Isle when he was a babe, having found a wet nurse to feed him and giving Father a place to stay and bury his wife without having to spend all of his money. Eddard did not remember this time, but he remembered the time afterwards. Somewhere along the foothills of the mountains in the Vale was their home, where he was born and raised.

Father said he and mother were hiding, and the best place to hide was right under their enemy’s nose. He never said anything more about it, but Eddard was endlessly curious. Father had so many good stories to tell, he was sure that was only another one.

Father had requested audience with the queen, and the guards at the Castle’s gate recognized him immediately. He had no idea his father was so… infamous. The men seemed afraid of him, and his father was more gruff than usual. When someone finally took notice of him, they called him “the dog’s bastard” and Father hit him so hard that he sprawled out on the ground.

Eddard was afraid for a moment, thinking they would take his father to a dungeon or hurt him, but instead the men all backed away and one hurried to tell the queen about his request.

Father, still scowling, turned to him. “You’re _not_ a bastard, Eddard. Anyone calls you that, jab them with your dagger. You hear me?”

“Yes, father.” His hand went to the dagger at his hip. It was the best gift he’d ever received. It wasn’t new, it had been Father’s for as long as he could remember, but somehow that made it so much better. He clung to it in his sleep the first few nights after he had gotten it, but not out of fear, out of gratefulness instead.

A few hours later, they were called into the throne room. It had been emptied of common folk. Only the Dragon Queen, her guards, and her hand remained. Eddard had never seen a woman so beautiful before, except in his dreams of his mother.

“Sandor Clegane, what brings you before me?” The Queen called from her high position on the Iron Throne. Eddard wondered how she could sit comfortably on a chair like that. It didn’t even look like a chair, more like a giant pile of spikes. “Why should I not imprison you, knowing the history of your house and how it relates to mine own?”

“Because I am not my brother.” His father’s lips curled up. “Gregor was a monster, but he was also a tool. What he did to your goodsister and her children, I would place equal blame on Tywin Lannister.”

“A man you once served.” She tilted her head.

“I served him because that is what I was brought up to do, but I left his service years before he died.”

“Why?”

“Because it was _madness_.” Father’s hands clenched into fists. “The Lannisters risked burning the whole city to the ground just to defeat Stannis Baratheon. That little shit of a king was wild with madness and killing people each day for nothing. His own betrothed…”

The Dragon Queen raised her hand. “I’ve heard the tales. All of them.”

“No doubt you’ve heard it from your own hand.” Father turned his head towards the dwarf at the queen’s side. “The same man who _forced_ Sansa Stark to wed him.”

The Imp said nothing to that, but Eddard was shocked. His mother had been married once before? That was strange.

“This talk is getting tiresome.” The Queen said. “Tell me why you are here.”

“I am here to help my son claim his birthright.”

The Dragon Queen glanced over at Eddard. “I have given Clegane Keep away to someone else. In fact, it is no longer even called Clegane Keep.”

“Not the keep,” Father growled. “I mean Winterfell.”

“And what makes you think Winterfell is his birthright?”

“He’s got Stark blood. He’s Sansa Stark’s only son.”

The Imp was outraged. “What makes you think we’ll give Winterfell to the bastard you raped into Sansa Stark?”

“He’s not a fucking bastard, you halfwit, and I never raped her.”

“She is my wife, but he is not my son.” He looked around. “And I’ll let her tell whether or not she was forced. Where is she?”

“Dead,” Father was angry. “Dead and buried and cold in the ground. She’s been so for years, since the boy was born.”

“And remind me how it is that he’s not a bastard.”

“Because your marriage was a jape and only half done.” Father rasped. “I married her in the sight of her gods, the old gods, and consummated it afterwards. You’ll find your proof in the boy here. She named him Eddard, after her father.” He pushed his son forward. “In the north, my marriage to her will be recognized before yours will, imp.”

“Even if your son is trueborn, that would make him a Clegane, not a Stark.” The Queen said.

“According to his mother, it’s blood that matters in the north. One of the Stark ancestors was a bastard fathered by a wildling, and he still got his grandfather’s titles. Name him Stark, give him Winterfell. It’s his right.”

Eddard felt uneasy under those intense violet eyes. “Come here, Eddard.” The Queen beckoned him forward, so he went to the base of the steps. “How old are you?”

“E-Eight, your grace.” He felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. She wouldn’t feed him to her dragons, would she?

“Do you know your letters?”

“No, I- Father and I, we live by ourselves. I know how to hunt though.” After a moment he added, “If it please you.”

“Why is it that you never taught your son to read and write, but expect him to become Lord of Winterfell?” She asked Father.

“I never had the resources to teach him.” Father rasped. “And anyway, surviving was more important.”

“He will have to be taught his letters, along with how to fight properly.” The Queen stroked her chin in thought.

“Your grace, you can’t truly be considering this.” The Imp said. “He’s a bastard.”

“I’m not a bastard!” Eddard fought the tight feeling welling up in his chest. Why did everyone keep calling him that?

“He’s only a boy.” The Queen said, smiling down at him. “Besides, the northern men would be content if I gave them a Stark to put in Winterfell, and just look at him. He looks like a Stark.”

“He looks like his father.” The Imp retorted. “But he stinks of his uncle, I can smell it from here. That uncle was a bastard too.”

“I've decided that I will name you a Stark, and give you Winterfell,” She said to him gently. “but you must swear fealty to me. I will send one of my most trusted men with you to guide you.”

“Yes, your grace, of course.” He faltered. “My father is coming too, right?”

She inclined her head, looking at Father again. “Perhaps if he proves trustworthy.”

Father growled. “You will not separate me from my son.”

“Please, I can’t be away from my father.” Eddard floundered for words. “Please, your grace. _Please_.”

“Fine.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I am not so cruel as to separate a child from his only remaining parent. But I must ask, how did Sansa Stark die? Tell me exactly.”

The side of Father’s face twitched. “When she was with child, she came down with a fever. She was too weak to travel, and I thought to bring a maester to her but I didn’t want to leave her alone. A few days in, she birthed the boy. She had enough time left to name him, and we slept with him between us.” He looked away. “When I woke, she was cold and I had to pry him out of her stiff arms while he wailed. Is that a good enough tale for you?"

She stared at Father for a moment. “Yes.” Abruptly, she turned her head. “Ser Barristan.”

“Yes, my queen?” The man who stepped forward was old enough to crumble, but his posture was perfect and erect. Eddard had heard tales about Ser Barristan the Bold. He sucked in a breath, awed to be in the presence of such a man.

“I think you will be suitable to care for little Lord Eddard in Winterfell.” She smiled at him. “You will teach him to be as honorable and brave as yourself and to admire me as his queen the same as you do.”

“The cold might bother his joints.” The Imp quipped with an easy smile.

“My joints will be fine.” Barristan replied. “I’ve always found the cold to be bracing. It will be done as you command, my queen.”

“I will make sure that everything is arranged for you to travel in a few days.” The Queen looked down at Eddard and his father again. “You may stay at the castle while you wait, but Hound, I will not tolerate any harassment of my servants.”

“I’m not going to harass your bloody servants.” Father’s lip curled up. “Just give me and the boy a place to sleep and I’ll leave everyone alone.”

And it was done as the Queen commanded.

* * *

 

Father slept during most of their stay at the castle. That was fine with Eddard. He had rarely seen his father sleep before. Father was usually up when Eddard went to sleep, and up when he awoke too.

So he spent most of his time getting to know everyone around the keep. Everyone said he was like his mother, just like the people in the town back home used to. They said that he was sweet like his mother, not ill-tempered and mean like his father. Eddard didn’t think that his father was mean, and that wouldn’t make sense anyway. If his mother was so nice and sweet, why would she willingly marry a man who was ill-tempered and mean?

Whenever he visited the queen, the Imp was there too, looking at him with a queer expression on his face. Eddard couldn’t help but stare too. It wasn’t the scar or his size that made him stare; it was that he had once been married to his mother. Burning with curiosity, he questioned the man one day.

“What was my mother like, when you knew her?” Eddard asked him, sitting on the steps in the throne room.

The Imp seemed surprised by his question. “Does your father not talk about her?”

“Only a little, but he doesn’t like to. It hurts him. He never says so, but I can tell.” So the Imp squatted down and sat himself next to Eddard on the steps.

“She was only a child when I knew her.” He said. “She might’ve changed by the time she was… with your father.”

“I thought you were married to her, though. How could you have been married to her if she was only a child?”

The Imp’s mouth twisted into a deep frown. “She was a child when I married her. She was lovely, though. She did not look a child, but she was one. Our marriage was never,” He paused, searching for his words. “Completed. But I suppose she met your father later and completed another one with him.”

“Father says he wasn’t allowed to marry her, but he did anyway because she kissed him and asked him to.”

The Imp laughed at that. “She could’ve done the same with any other man, and gotten the same result.”

“He said she was perfect.” Eddard tried to bring forth the image of his dead mother but failed. “Was she?”

“Your mother was very beautiful, but she was not perfect when I knew her.” The Imp sighed. “She was only a little girl who was broken and unhappy. I don’t think she had anything in the world to her own name.”

“She had her heart. She gave that to father, though.” His lower lip trembled. “I would’ve given her mine.” Hot tears streamed down his face and he brushed at them with his sleeve. The Imp gave him a hesitant look before placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I know what you feel. I never knew my mother either.” He gave a wry smile. “But you have your father, and gruff as he is, he loves you and wants the best for you. He’s made you a lord. _My_ father never did that for me, and I was his heir.” He laughed again, a bitter laugh.

The tears kept flowing, though. “I want my mother. I never had a mother. I don’t know what it’s like but I want her. I never met her but I miss her.” He sniffled loudly into his sleeve, sure to leave stains on the nice tunic the queen had gifted him.

“Come, boy, let’s get you to your chambers.” The Imp rose and pulled the boy to his feet. At only eight years old, he towered over him, but neither of them seemed to notice. Eddard was tugged along behind the Imp and finally pushed into the chamber he shared with his father.

The Imp never said a word, only closed the door when he left.

Father was sitting near the fire, rubbing his sore leg, but then he looked up at his son with a shocked expression on his face. “What are all the tears for, son? Did someone call you a bastard again?”

He shook his head and trudged over to his father, pulling himself up into his lap. Father grunted with the weight but did not push him down.

“You’re not a baby anymore.” He rasped. “I can’t keep holding you like one.”

“Please, father.” He pressed his face into his father’s shoulder. “I miss mother. I wish she hadn’t died. I wish she hadn't left us.”

After a moment, he felt his father’s arms wrap around him and hold him close. Eddard could hear and feel his heartbeat, and that calmed his weeping.

“I wish the same, Eddard. I do. I never loved someone so much as I loved your mother and you, and I never will again. Most of the good parts of me died with her.” His father’s voice sounded hoarse. “I would’ve died too if not for you. Saved me just like your mother, you did. She wanted you to have Winterfell. She spoke of it all that night you were born.”

“What did she say?” It came out an awe-filled whisper.

“She said you were heir to Winterfell, to name you Eddard, and that you’d be a great lord like all the men before you. Said you’d grow up tall and strong, even though she carried you with a fever.” He felt his father shake his head. “She said a lot of things that never happened too… How we would be there when you sat her father’s seat. How you’d have so many brothers and sisters to keep you company. How she and I would be buried together in the crypt under Winterfell.” For a moment he thought his father was laughing, but then he realized with horror that he was sobbing instead. He’d never seen his father cry before.

“You will, father.” He reached his hand up, cupping his father’s burned cheek. “When I’m Lord of Winterfell, I’ll make sure of it.”

And fifteen years later, when he buried his father in the crypts of Winterfell, he sent for his mother’s bones to be brought from the Quiet Isle and buried with him. He sent ravens all over the kingdom to find a stonemason who knew his mother’s face, and it took years to get him to Winterfell.

When the two statues sat side by side in the crypt, he looked upon his father’s burned face without fear like he had since the day he was born, but it was his mother’s face that made him sob. He clung to the statue, crying into his mother’s arms for the first time in his life.

When his wife birthed a daughter first, everyone was disappointed, for they wanted a son; but he was not, for he named his daughter Sansa.

 


End file.
